


A Mother's Lament

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [58]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Grief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: Lagertha grieves the loss of her friend--and realizes she may also be losing Ragnar





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early 3x07

A baby's skin was always so soft and smooth, Lagertha thought as she cradled her granddaughter in her arms, enjoying the sweet girl's smile. Sadly, the child's mother still seemed indifferent to her; Lagertha worried that the child would not be properly cared for, even though Aslaug had assured her that wouldn't be a problem. Though her remaining living child was now a grown man, eager to board the ship and sail to Paris, old instincts stirred in her. She remembered feeding her children, relaxing as her milk let down and quieted hungry cries. She wished she could do so again, and bond with this one as she had with her own.

But other, equally strong instincts overrode such fancies. She had tamped down her warrior side when her children were young, and now that she was no longer needed in such a fashion, it had reared up again, like a wild horse. She still dreamed of the comforts of home and farm, but the battlefield called her, too.

Things didn't feel right today, though. The flurry of activity at the dock was in most ways the usual sort, but a whisper had spread throughout the company: where was Ragnar? Where was their king? His horse was gone, and the beast's hoofprints led up into the mountains, but beyond that, no one could say.

Knowing where he most likely was as of last night, Lagertha had stopped by Athelstan's quarters. What she had seen there had curdled her breakfast in her stomach. Though it seemed some tidying had occurred, the dark stain on the floor was new, and telltale. The room's fire had long since burned out, and in its ashes lay something strange. A book, as Athelstan had once explained to her what such items were. Most of it had been charred beyond recognition, but a few of the pages still bore images and script. The latter she could not understand any more than she could have understood the chattering of small animals, but the images were clear: Bjorn. Siggy. Ragnar, of course. And herself. She had shivered at the sight. She had seen her own image enough times: reflected in water and shiny metal, and occasionally glass. When she was in Wessex, Ecbert had allowed her the use of a polished sheet of tin that gave a fairly sharp impression. Yet she had never before seen her image in any other form. It was lifelike—Athelstan was a talented artist—and intriguing. Removing the page from its bindings, she rolled it up and stashed it in her pack.

In the center of the room was a crude but distinct object: A cross; a Christian symbol. The bloodstain on the floor was nearby. Something horrible had happened here, and fear and anger rose within her.

A search of the town had proven pointless, though, so in the absence of further information, she tried to go about her preparations for the journey as usual. Saying a fond farewell to her grandchild was part of that list. A commotion outside interrupted her reverie, however. Handing the child back to the women attending her, she stepped out the door.

Riding into the square, as if it were something perfectly normal, was her ex husband. He was disheveled and covered in dirt. His hands bore signs of toil. His close-cropped hair was gone, and trickles of blood from nicks still stained his face. Most shocking of all, however, was the item that hung around Ragnar's neck—an item she instantly recognized.

"Ragnar!" she called to him. He dismounted, and turned toward her. Closer now, she could see that he had been crying. His eyes were swollen, and tear tracks streaked down his dirty cheeks. "What happened?" she demanded. She lowered her voice. "Where is Athelstan?"

Ragnar made a choked noise, and pushed past her.

It wasn't until they were sailing that he explained. The sun was hot, and many had taken the opportunity of calm seas to sleep while their work was unneeded. Ragnar stood alone at the bow, gazing out over the water and mumbling while he cradled the pendant.

He seemed to sense her presence behind him. "He is dead," he said, without emotion. "Murdered."

Her fear proven right, she felt as if she had swallowed an ember. Her knees weakened, and she sat down atop a crate. "Who did it?" she looked down at her hands.

Ragnar shrugged. "I do not know. It could have been anyone." He glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the assembled party. "Any one of the people on this boat could have done it. They all had cause to." Something in his voice said he had suspicions, but wasn't sharing them.

Lagertha frowned. "You know I would not have. Never."

Ragnar resumed staring at the water. "I know. But you were one of his few friends even before he removed his arm ring." He chewed his lower lip. "I fear this is my fault. I brought him back to Kattegat—back to his doom."

Lagertha sighed. "He made the choice. Twice. This was not your doing."

Ragnar grumbled. "I know that. I also know he would not have been safer had he stayed in Wessex. Still."

"Athelstan was a man without a country," she murmured. "He likely would not have been safe anywhere. I understand your feeling, though. I wish I could have protected him as well. The distractions of Kalf and our granddaughter have taken my mind away from him, and I regret that."

"He was not your responsibility, though, Lagertha." Ragnar fidgeted with the cross. "He was mine."

Not being usually given to talking around a subject, she nodded at the item. "Are you wearing this for him, or have you become a Christian now?"

Ragnar stared out at the water. After a moment's silence, he spoke again. "He found his God. That was why he removed his arm ring. He had become a Christian again. He wanted to leave Kattegat. I convinced him to stay, and told him I would keep him safe." His eyes grew wet. "I tried to stay close to him every chance I got, but last night, I could not. Aslaug was caring for the baby, and asked me to stay with my sons. I could not refuse such a request, yet I wish I had. Perhaps then he would still be alive."

"Perhaps," Lagertha agreed. "Yet who is to say it would not have happened some other time? As you say, he had few friends. People were already questioning whether he should be with us on this journey—I heard the talk around Kattegat. And had he stayed behind, he would not have survived long, either. Perhaps this was always his fate."

Ragnar wheeled on her, eyes flashing. "Fate does not cause murder, Lagertha! People do. It does not matter when or how he was killed or even by whom. Someone killed him, and I did not protect him from that."

She eased back at the heat of his words. "I understand," she said evenly, trying to calm him. "Yet the blame surely lies with the person who murdered him, not the person who had loved and protected him for so many years before it happened."

Ragnar looked away again, and his shoulders fell as he let out a heavy sigh. "Athelstan told me about Paris. We were supposed to see it together. I will have to see it for him—for both of us. He should have been on this ship, sitting where you are right now. Instead, I will have to keep him with me the only way I can." He cradled the cross in his palm again.

A flash of warning went through her; Ragnar had not answered her question about his faith. Yet grief overwhelmed all other feelings. She remained silent, but she let herself cry for a moment. "We have lost so many of the people we have loved," she finally said. "Yet hope remains. We have a granddaughter—your line will continue. And in any case, we will see our loved ones again someday."

"Not Athelstan," Ragnar said flatly. "If such a place exists, he is in his Heaven, with his God. He died for his faith. He told me once that that was sort of an automatic pass to the Christian afterlife. I cannot see a path there myself. I will not see him again."

A breath hitched in her chest. She saw again the way he fondled the cross, and realized that perhaps that was not actually the case. She began to see visions of her own journey to Valhalla—a place Ragnar may not be. She shivered.

A voice behind her pulled her out of her head and she turned, as did Ragnar.

"Lagertha? Ragnar?" Helga stood behind them, holding out a bowl full of dried fish and nuts. "Are you hungry?"

Lagertha rubbed a hand across her eyes and smiled. "I am. Thank you." She stood up. "Ragnar?"

Ragnar had already turned his attention back to the sea. Food was not what he wanted, nor company. What he did want undoubtedly lay on the other side of death—but not in a place she herself could ever go. She grieved with him for the loss of her friend, but another layer of grief began to settle around her heart. Ragnar still drew breath, yet it was becoming clear that for her, he was already lost.


End file.
